


Grey

by DottyDot



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Canon Universe, Early marriage, F/M, NedCat Spring Event, NedCat Week, Pre-Canon, Romance, just romance, no plot only feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 17:38:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18348479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DottyDot/pseuds/DottyDot
Summary: Riverrun was blue water, green trees, yellow sunlight; the North was only grey.





	Grey

 

 

Riverrun was blue water, green trees, yellow sunlight; the North was only grey.

The grey of the castle walls encircled her as if to assure her there was no escaping, this was now her home. She must learn to adjust to the cold, not long for the sun. She used to swim in the swift rivers, run in green grass, sit in patches of warmth. Now she stood on the battlements looking out on a white landscape that offered none of the brilliance she had known as a girl.

The grey of the Northern skies, always bearing the tint of snow, promising soon, if not now, fell down around her, sinking into her as effectively as any downpour. She did not know air could be heavy before she came North, now, she learned not every breath was easy, sometimes it hurt to breathe.

The grey of Lord Stark’s eyes, how she wished they would say the words his lips never uttered. She wanted _anything_ , any sign of what he felt, but there was none, and she could not ask. They were only a reminder of everything she would never know or have.

Her husband might as well be a large stone from the quarry, not immediately pleasing to the eye, cumbersome, unmovable by her hand, or any man's, yet while it caused her suffering, she admired it. She had similarities to him, in some ways, she was very like him, in more ways than she had expected at first. In that moment, when she had questioned him, he was steel, and she was flint. If he wanted to strike, she would spark, they could burn together.

She had asked a question once, she never would again. Not because they did not see each other, but because they did not speak, not truly. Because Lord Stark was impassive, and she was afraid of the truth and afraid of a lie. What was now between them she was forbidden to touch, and so, whatever he harbored she could not discern. Her own feelings raged within her, silent fury hidden by a placid face.

He was quiet, so quiet his presence could be known by the silence which followed him, a calmness which made his outburst when she questioned him about the bastard babe all the more shocking. He had frightened her then, she would never ask again. When he presided at table, when they spoke of impersonal matters of housekeeping, finance, maintenance, little Robb, that they could do well enough. She did not fear _him_ , only the cuts in her feet as the jagged edges of betrayal tore at them, like rocks settled in the wasteland in the before and after of her marriage.

She thought of the Tully words, _family, duty, honor_. She had her son, a man she called husband, a man she knew of, without knowing at all, they were now her family. Lord Stark wasn't a weapon, not really. He wasn't cruel, simply lost within himself in memories of happier times which now hurt him because of the darkness that followed. Uncomfortable in a role he was suited to, but never intended for. This Northman did not need to speak of his feelings, she knew he dwelled in his own agony as much as she; he lived in his murdered brother’s house, was married to a dead man’s betrothed. Each time he looked at her, when he had touched her, it was a reminder of what he had lost.

She knew this, knew he had pains as well as she. She wanted to deny it, dwell in her barren ground, wallow in her own suffering, but she could not tear away her own flesh, and they had become one. He may not value the vows of her faith, but she could. She tried to put out the spark that so desperately wanted to light it all ablaze, destruction teased her, called to her. For her sake, for her son’s, she must resist. She could soften, she could absorb the blow, as much as she did not want to, she could.

Standing on the battlement, drowning in grey, she fancied herself a flower seed cast upon rocks, expected to spring to life without soil for her roots, with nothing to nourish her or cling to. She needed--she did not quite know. Something to hold onto, a sign or just the _possibility_ of life. She needed more than a fortress to place herself within and safely be. She needed anything that was not cold, bitter, that would be enough. But in such harsh land, where everything was hard and soundless, she did not know if there would ever be more than this, if it could be different.

She longed for a smile, a sign of pleasure, a chance to warm herself in her icy marriage. And she wanted it, a real marriage, for no matter how she tried to indulge her feelings, justify them because they _were_ justifiable, when she looked at her husband, she could not see a cruel man. He was a true Northman, mingling the good and the bad of it. She almost wished he were demanding or overbearing so she might despise him, but he was not, she couldn’t.

She had never known a man like him before, he was wise like her father, but unlike him as much as alike. She had loved and been loved by her father in turn, treasured, and while her husband treated her courteously, there was so little between them besides the grey. She feared surrendering to this, accepting him. She thought it would leave her as grey as everything else in this place.

He was straightforward, speaking what he meant and as little as possible which was why his behavior was--she shook herself. She could stay on these rocks and wither or dig under them to find a way to live. She knew there was no escaping her marriage, yet she could determine what it would become; as much as she fought against it, she knew it was a choice that was hers alone.

Earlier she had heard girls in the kitchen giggling over the workmen and masons who labored over some new project. Coming down from the wall, shaking snow from her cape, she saw Lord Eddard directing the workers She wanted to ask, but she was determined to stop asking, to stop wondering about him or _his_ , because none of that was permissible to him. He saw her though, nodded, but did not come to her, instead he continued to instruct his man. She quelled any feeling she might have had. He owed nothing to her, so she continued on her way.

"My Lady." 

She could not ignore his call, she stopped, using all her willpower, she turned to him. He was nearer now, speaking to her so the others could not hear. 

"Would you look over the plans?"

"What insight could I offer on masonry, My Lord?"

"I--" her husband hesitated, the first sign he was not entirely self-confident at all times. He might even be uncertain, she could not be sure, she had never seen him so before. "It is a sept. Your opinion on the matter is more important than mine."

This was--she would never have expected, could not comprehend. "I--what for?"

"For you, My Lady."

"I—we—you do not worship the seven?” She knew he did not, yet it came out a question regardless.

“No, but you do.”

“It is a great expense after the cost of the war—I do not need—it would seem frivolous to your people.”

“They will say the foolishness is my own. What of the plans?” He was so unperturbed, deciding such a thing, acting on it as if it would not upend her understanding of him and what they were to each other. She could not gather her wits to say more, too moved, too angry, too thankful, to stricken. Such a gift, that he should think to do such a thing, she would never have expected it, she could not allow it, but she could not stop it now either. “I—” she was staring into those eyes, the vast Northern skies collapsed and deep, determined never to reveal anything to her. She looked away, at the paper he held outstretched, taking them into her shaking hands, she stammered out approval before daring to once again look at him. 

“You do not need to do this for me.”

He rubbed a hand across his jaw, words from him never quick or easy. “I have dishonored you, My Lady. Let me honor you.”

She wanted to strike him across his weathered face.

She wanted to kiss him.

Each image came so forcefully to her mind she almost believed she had dared to, one after another, realizing she hadn’t, she thought she could do both at the same time. In truth she did nothing, too lost in her confusion. She wanted to land a blow of her own, she wanted to see him hurt as he had hurt her, but could she live in such a life? This man infuriated her as no other. She wanted to tell him she had no input, he clearly did not value her, he did not require her goodwill or permission, but where she had withdrawn, determined to keep within her boundaries, he had stepped toward her, attempting to close the distance.

He was moving the boulders between them, the ones she could not cross over, wordlessly asking to use them for the foundation of her sept. He had no right to ask such a thing of her, no right to strive for her forgiveness without her consent, no right to make her reach beyond her capacity to feel. She had tamed herself, preparing to take a small step, and he had reached out, pulling her three. She wanted to weep dramatically as Lysa would have, perhaps screech, call him the names she knew for men such as he, but what sort of man was he? For _this_ , this was confounding.

She could do none of that. Her husband's stoicism was reflected in her own determination to not let him have any part of her, but he was prying her resentment from her fingers, asking to give her something good in its stead, and it made parts of her crumble. She quieted her trembling as she talked over his plans with him. Her anger could not be eradicated so easily, yet her flash of rage subsided as she spoke with him. For the moment, she felt like herself again, offering her opinion and finding a willing listener.

As they stood together, she told herself to ignore the warmth filling her from simply being near him. He looked down at her, raised his large hand, brushing snowflakes from her hair. “You’ve a snowdrift on your head, My Lady.”

There was such a gruffness to his voice, a roughness in his accent, even when attempting to speak kind words. She blushed, he dropped his hand, returned to calling out directions to his men. She remained where she was, watching them work, silently fuming that even when angry, even with her list of his wrongs, she had flushed when he touched her hair. She had almost thought there was _something_ in his eyes, almost believed that perhaps he had been touched too.

That night she retrieved a dress she had sewn during the war after her wedding when she wondered if her husband would return or if she would be a young widow. There had been such hope in her fingers then, and while it was only months ago, she had been a girl with childish dreams. Now she was a woman with a life’s worth of disappointments to mourn. Instead of the colors she preferred to wear, her blues and greens, this gown was grey. Her fingers trailed over it, rather than finding it the reflection of the blank sky, she remembered her husband’s eyes when he said, _“Let me honor you.”_ She held the dress to her chest, she could not wear it now, but she knew she was still a silly girl, even after it all.

Robb was walking now, she spent her days trailing behind him down the long halls, snatching him up before he stumbled down stairs. Then one morning, instead of her husband being lost for hours in his solar, or patiently hearing concerns and complaints from his people, or riding out to attend to a dispute, he was there, asking for the boy’s furs.

“It is too cold to take the boy out, My Lord.”

“He is a Northman” was his only answer, his hand asking for the wraps, and so, she allowed him to take the child. Her husband followed the boy wherever he wandered, a warrior happily playing at being a nursemaid.

She did not join him the first or second or third time he appeared to claim his son, but she watched him, a strange man with a sword she could not lift, a scar on his face from battle which declared his victory, a great man who now bent low so that their son might catch and hold one of his fingers as they walked the grounds of Winterfell together.

It was an uncomfortable thing to hold so many fragments of a man in her hands and not know how they coexisted. She did not see the whole of him, could only grasp small parts, but then, she had not sought to. She would not take more than her share of the blame, he had taken from her a hope too sacred to be uttered, but she was not the only one who suffered. He had lost his family, one after the other, brutally, and he had taken life, but no matter how many lives you take, you can never retrieve those that have been lost. You have only added to the dead.

She covered her face with her hands, she could not expect him to give up another member of his family, no matter that it cost her a piece of herself. He would never relinquish his son. He chose family over her honor, a decision she could understand no matter how it grieved her. He would not, or could not speak of it, whatever had happened while he was away, but he was here now, coming to her, reaching out to her, in the ways that such a man could. Those hands that had taken a kingdom were caressing his son’s hair, chipping away another part of her, cautiously, slowly flaking away her pain, causing it to fall at her feet.

She had told herself she was doing her duty as long as she never denied him, so she had not barred her door; he had not come knocking. Watching him now, she counted it consideration for her, rather than further rejection, and she knew, in spite of her anger, she would be happy to give her husband a family again. She may be denied honor, but she could have a family, if she chose it. Whatever he felt for her, he loved their boy. Worse sins have been forgiven for less.

The next time he came to claim Robb she walked with them, a foot or two behind her husband, into the dark godswood which always struck her with foreboding rather than the beauty of the weirwoods of Riverrun. But today, as they silently walked to the heart tree, grey was not the only color she noticed. She saw the beauty in the white bark of the tree, the leaves hanging from the branches above them transformed the sky from ash grey into a furious red.

Robb toddled over to the tree, his small hands grabbing onto its face, “Robb!” she exclaimed, thinking it a desecration.

“It does not signify, My Lady. He may do as he chooses.”

She relinquished her son’s hands to let his fingers explore the eyes and mouth cut into the tree. She would never fathom this religion without rules her husband practiced, or her husband himself.

“My Lord—”

“I would prefer if you used my name, My Lady.”

She nodded. “Then you must remember to call me by mine, _Eddard_.”

A pause, “ _Catelyn_ ” said as if he found it a relief to say the word at last. “It’s a pretty name.”

She blushed, embarrassed at what a simple compliment did to her, coming from her husband. His lips did not smile, yet he was smiling all the same. The deep crinkles around his eyes, or the lightening of their grey storm, something gave him away, and she pressed her lips together, refusing to give him a smile that easily, but she thanked him.

They sat together in this sacred place, their son gathering fallen leaves and offering them one by one to his father. That silence which followed Eddard was even louder in the godswood, the stillness he was imbued with a fleeting sensation compared to what she experienced sitting here, a world in which she didn’t belong.

Robb sat down to dig at the moss growing along the roots of the tree, and Eddard held out one of his gifted leaves to her. Surprise, confusion must have registered on her face, for he said with his Northern gruffness, “It’s the same color as your hair.” It was a statement of fact, but it felt like more. Her hands took the leaf without her eyes leaving his, and she wondered how she found his gaze cold before. When they left the godswood, she walked by his side with Robb wandering before them, the red leaf resting in her hand.

Exploring the godswood was not an activity Catelyn had ever imagined she would enjoy. Day after day she accompanied her husband and son into the thickness of branches and leaves, and soon, the heavy air was welcome to her. Eddard took them to the kennels where she knelt down to prevent the dogs from licking the entirety of Robb’s face. She knew without hearing a laugh that her husband enjoyed the sight. The stables joined their rotation, Eddard surprised her by offering an apple to Robb as well as to her so they might summon his stallion to be admired. He seemed more at ease when they visited the animals, and she saw how his quiet way soothed them.

The glass gardens were startling in their vibrance, food and flowers in varying hues demanded their due, so each was praised in turn. Eddard stood silently, allowing his wife and child to wander, to point and exclaim as they would, his tendency to simply _be_ something Catelyn had begun to accept, grown accustomed to, almost appreciate.

When she walked the walls with her husband and son, the great fortress seemed less determined to cage her. She very nearly felt security rather than frustration. They were imposing, mighty, striking in their own way, offered safety for her son. He would rule this great castle one day, and she felt the stirrings of pride. Their explorations left Robb’s little legs tired, and while he looked like Catelyn, he had enough of his father’s fortitude to stubbornly continue to march along even when his steps faltered.

One such morning, Eddard picked up the child to carry him from the heart tree to his bed, Robb’s head lolled on his father’s shoulder as he quickly fell asleep. She told herself to not be carried away by the sight of auburn hair strewn across Eddard’s wide shoulders, but her husband cradling the boy in his arms moved her nonetheless.

Eddard deposited Robb on his bed, and Catelyn did not watch him leave as the boy began to murmur, partially awakening with the loss of comforting arms. She slipped off his shoes and furs, placing her head on the pillow next to his, his small hands grabbing onto her braid as he loved to do. She hummed to soothe him back into slumber, then evened out her breathing, his own became regular, then he dipped back into sleep.

She sat back on her heels, attempting to pull her hair into order as she rose and turned to leave. Eddard had not closed the door behind him, he had not left at all. Instead, her husband stood there, resting his head against the stone doorway. The comfort she had found walking the grounds with him seemed to have been mutual. His face was peaceful, his eyes on her as she walked slowly toward him, where he stood the only exit from the room. He stepped toward her, into the room and out of her way, allowing her to pass as she self-consciously re-braided her hair, noting with no small amount of pleasure that Eddard could not seem to look away.

She hesitated while dressing that night, not wanting to give in anymore, also wanting to give in completely. The grey dress fit well, and she did not miss the look in her husband’s eyes as she entered the hall dressed as a Stark with her hair unbound, flowing around her shoulders.

He was not fond of music, nor did Eddard enjoy dancing, she knew it was because of the memories, more of those things he did not speak of. Even so, when the Lords gathered, he summoned a man to sing for them. She was never so entranced by music as a girl to have it affect her, being married, carrying on her constant tug and pull between love and hate, wanting to resist and relent, each in succession, both simultaneously, her heart was vulnerable as it had never been before. The songs made her sigh, then they broke her heart. As the night wore on more ale than food was consumed, the songs began to make her blush and the men roared with laughter.

She had neglected to watch Eddard’s cup, so she did not know if it was drink or awkwardness making him flush, perhaps both, but he stood with his hand outstretched to her, and she felt him call her name although he did not speak a word. Whether it was how much wine she had imbibed, the frailty of her emotions, or simply that she wanted to dance with this man, she did not hesitate to place her hand in his, although she had not touched him since that day, and he had never made a move unsolicited by her since. Her hand in his palm was entirely disconcerting, she would not survive the dance if he held her, yet, he must.

His hands were on her, she tried not to gasp or flinch, because she had never fully hardened herself against him. Perhaps those things that lay between them were neither so impossible to clamber over or remove. Walks in the godswoods as a family, a sept purely for her, music and a dance, maybe they were enough for her to begin to grow. His fingers held her waist tightly, as stoic as his face was, somehow his eyes neglected to conceal his every thought as he admired her. Seeing his eyes thus, she wondered that she ever thought the North was without its warmth. His face was turned down to her, and as she moved her head, his nose ever so slightly brushed her hair, then he dipped his head, kissing the red strands so lightly it might have been snowflakes landing on her again.

“Eddard?” She spoke on instinct, questions she could never ask coming out in the word, without realizing it, she had ceased her dancing, she was motionless, not knowing what she could do, so torn between wanting everything from him and nothing at all.

“Catelyn? Catelyn, are you well?”

She left the hall, confused, tears she had refused to permit before were threatening her now, and she did not know if they were because of her existing pain or the pain of relinquishing it. She fled outside with hurried footsteps, she was not a child, she would not run. She stopped when she stood in the unfinished sept, the beginnings of the walls no higher than her knee, the sky awake above her, looking into the foreign structure, into her broken marriage, into her, knowing things she wanted no one to know.

She did not want to see his face, have his hands on her, if only he did not look at her so, if only his hands did not say so much. She did want to feel them, she wanted them to mean he cared for her, not his lady wife, but _her_. Yet, that could not be unless she risked it all again, and she was so afraid. She could survive in this cold, remain frozen, or she could live, but living had its cost, and she could not bear it.

“Catelyn” her husband had come, placing warm furs on her, because of course he would, and she wanted to send him away, she wanted to ignore him, to silently shame him into feeling all the pain she had felt. She knew he had felt it though, it had always been in his eyes, always in his touch. He was just as incapable of expressing these things to her, as she was unable to tell him of hers.

She could send him from her, or she could bring him closer.

This was her life, she had no choices, but she still had her choice.

She turned into him, her arms going around his strong chest, seeking and giving comfort rather than inflicting more damage upon them both. He was startled, he tensed, then, a deep breath, and his arms come around her, so gentle, firm, warm, and she was so relieved that he held her she could do nothing but weep.

Her anger had made her strong, brittle, and breaking it was more agony, a greater sacrifice than she had known. It was at her husband's hand she received this pain, and it was his arms that would ease it. His nose was once again buried in her hair, and then he kissed the top of her head. While he did not cry, he was no less moved than she. Love is a terrible thing. It ached to refuse it, it ached to receive it.

"Catelyn" he said, trembling, hoping to suddenly find the words he needed that had always escaped him before. "I have been--I want you to know--I--" 

Her hand reached out to him, landing on his chest first, moving up to his face, cupping his bearded cheek. "You are a good man," saying it, not because she wanted to, not because he wanted to hear it, because it was true, and she believed it. 

She calmed, her sobs died away and left her as she always was, seemingly unmoved by suffering. “Cat,” a shuddering breath, “my family calls me Cat.” Poor Eddard must not know what to think, holding a weeping woman who now insisted on a new form of address. She was surprised when she shifted away from him that his arms tightened around her.

"Let me hold you a little while longer. Stay with me, _Cat_.” There was more emotion in his voice than she had ever seen in his face.

She reminded herself that as much as her heart had been scarred, his had as well, and suffering together was a better fate than suffering alone. “And I will call you Ned” she said, lifting her arms, draping them on his shoulders, studying the reflection of the lights above in his eyes, moving her hands to the back of his head to run her fingers through his hair.

Every stroke of her fingers was a stone being removed from between them, making way for them to build something new. They stood in the beginnings of her sept, and she knew, even though they had been married for some time now, that at last they had reached the beginning of their marriage, their _true_ marriage.

She made her choice.

She lifted her face to his, waiting, momentarily forgetting how cautious her husband was. She pressed her fingers into his hair, the mildest of suggestions, encouraging him to bend his lips to hers. She exchanged her bitter mistrust for sweet kisses.

She allowed Ned to move the boulders and she clambered over the ravine of sharp rocks between them until the only thing separating them was feather pillows and soft furs. She was no longer trapped in an arranged marriage, in a frozen keep, in a foreign land, she and her husband were building a much-desired life, together. Never again would he be an unknowable Lord to her, or she a distant Lady to him. They were Ned and Cat, finally.

She entrusted Ned with her pain, and the reward for trust given is trust received. Her husband earned hers, year after year, and she had always had as much of his as was his to give. Pain would linger, life was less forgiving than love, but there was softness between them now too. She saw his smile in the lines around his mouth even if his lips did not curve, could recognize his laughter in the wrinkles around his eyes. The dark light in them the sign of his joy in her, a sacred pleasure he found nowhere else.

Winterfell felt like home when she brought her children into the world, their soft downy hair, their sweet childish laughter bringing life into the castle that eased the unspoken pains she and Ned shared. Their marriage did not begin with happiness, such a thing was not simply found, but they could build it, for each other. Catelyn’s life in the North which began with such hardness became one full of softness. Ned’s shy glances, his reverent touches, the gentle kisses of this strange Northman who became her solid foundation, her sweetest comfort. While her husband adored the color of her hair, Cat found that somehow, she had come to love the color grey, grey skies, grey stone, and dark grey eyes.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve never written for Ned/Cat before, but they are such a lovely couple, it was a delight to spend some time thinking and writing about them. If you have favorite fics about Ned/Cat to recommend, please, please do so in the comments! I would love to read more Ned/Cat centric fics.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
